


Lockdown

by Lilviscious



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, M/M, Sadism, robinpile
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilviscious/pseuds/Lilviscious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jason welcomes Tim to his new, humble home and isn't fond of sharing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Tim Drake grit his teeth as he followed after the other men. His eyes darted left and right, but it appeared no one was paying him heed. There was no suspicious movement among the group of men that divided itself, one half climbing the iron staircase and the other heading to the petit rooms on the bottom floor. Like a hurdle of sheep, they thinned out their massive group and divided themselves into duos to fit in their cellblocks. They were rough, calloused men with permanent snarls and scowls and icy glares that made winter feel pleasantly warm. 

Amongst them, the wolf in sheep’s clothing was gone, but Tim was not relieved or at ease. 

Only after he heard his name and called out to confirm his presence did Tim uncross his arms. Instantly he winced, bringing his hand down from his rib where he had been pressing onto a cut. What had cut him? Who had cut him? With over 50,000 creative inmates, it was difficult to determine the weapon and suspect. Was it one of the men who had pummelled him in the workshop several days ago? 

The red liquid began seeping through his orange uniform. Tim quickly pressed his bloodied hand back to stop it from spreading further. With his bright eyes squinted, he glared at the concrete floor. He knew better than to show his pain and the distress gnawing at his mind, alarming him of possible future ambushes in the bathroom or the canteen. Beside him he heard his cellmate approach their cellblock, entering in silence to which the barred door slid in place and locked behind him.

The inmate was wearing a ‘what ya lookin at pretty boy’-smirk and Tim could vividly imagine the cigarette sticking out of his mouth, the fumes sticking to his clothing, skin and hair like a permanent cologne. He stinks, but smells of power. Only the wealthy and influential got their hands on cancer sticks. Their distinctive stench increased, tickled Tim’s nostrils and was the only indication of the man’s sudden intrusion of his personal space. For a man as bulky and tall as he, Jason Todd moved on swift feet. 

It took a heap of energy not to tense visibly when a large hand was placed on his shoulder, and then ventured down his back rounding his torso where fingertips prodded his own. Tim stiffened and straightened his spine at the sudden pressure to his wound. He supressed any and all sound threatening to slip between his chapped lips. The tip of the man's nose brushed his clenched jawline with faux tenderness, his thick fingers intertwining with Tim's bloody ones. He pressed, pressed against Tim's wound and forced the entire length of his back to his hard body that vibrated with light laughter. Jason Todd showed a malice grin when their eyes met. Barely contained discomfort and boiling hate piqued wicked curiosity and sadistic amusement. 

A hot breath fell on his ear making the hair in his nape stand on end.

“Welcome to Gotham Prison, _boytoy_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dick asking Jason if Timmy can come out and play.

“He looks even more like jailbait than Dami did five years ago,” a light, amused voice commented, disrupting Tim’s mantra. He tilted his head backward, sneaking a careful peek at the man embracing the barred window of his cell door, arms hanging leisurely with fingers twitching ever so slightly when the man noticed his gaze. “Hey Timmy, how are you feeling?” he asked smiling. A dreadful feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. News travelled fast, he thought warily, as his reputation usually didn’t precede him. He was a professional and took pride in his work and lack of enforced pressure from the law. They were unaware he had been stealing classified documents of the Pentagon, selling them online at prices the President would be baffled about, for quite some time now. Until, you know, they caught him. That being said, Tim was less proud of his capture and his migration. Once they had tracked him down and hacked his surveillance system (and really, Tim felt both humiliated and oddly fascinated by the person who had the skillset to do so), his capture had been a breeze: an ambushing squad of armed policemen infiltrating his lair had Tim surrendering with hands held high. Fleeing wasn’t an option with five assault rifles pointed your general direction.

And alas, he was sent to jail, standing out like a sore thumb. He was relatively small for a young adult his age, positively half the size of his cellmate and had chickenarms compared to his guns. Even the handsome, graceful man at the other side of the door looked more of a threat with well-defined muscles slipping in sight as his orange uniform shifted out of place. The average criminal could undoubtedly overpower him.

“Hey Jay,” the man called out to the silent inmate in the bunk beneath him. Tim pricked his ears up attentively, hearing a muffled grunt of acknowledgement. “Can Timmy come out and play?” The cheeky grin on the man’s face held something playful, but that was not all. He could only imagine what rough play he’d want him to take part in.

Tim redirected his stare and felt a flush creep onto his cheeks, starting at the back of his neck. So this is what it was going to be like, living in jail when hardly 5’7” and looking somewhat androgynous? There was movement out of the corner of his eyes, Jason emerging from his lair and surpassing the height of his top bunk with ease. Tim tried not to scowl: the man was a _giant_.

“Don’t you got your own boytoy, Goldie?” he asked, two large arms lifting to work the kinks out of his back. Tim lay silent when one of those arms fell down, a hand pressing on his head and shielding his eyes. Perhaps he shouldn’t be this pliable, but the wound inflicted to his torso stung mercilessly, remembering him he was at great disadvantage if Jason decided to slap him silly for talking back. “Ngh, Dami is playing _son of Batman_ again, saying he doesn’t have time to fulfill my _obnoxious tendencies_.” Tim could hear the pout on the man’s lips. “Come on, Jay. Share the new **ass** et,” the man added excitedly once more. There was a short scoff, the rough texture of Jason’s fingers pressing down onto his face. “Not yet,” was all he said and then the conversation was done. He awaited more whining, but once Jason lifted his hand the stranger had vanished. 

Odd, Tim thought quietly, had his bulking inmate protected him or was he simply possessive of nature? Opening his eyes, he found the man’s narrowed orbs observing him. The warmth of his hand, drifting down his neck and chest, halted where his own fingers were painted a deep red. The liquid had dried up by now, but the flesh was tender when Jason pressed down on his digits and therefore his wound. “Not yet,” he replied once more.

Tim didn’t dare question him when _yet_ was over.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason being a prick.

It will help heal his wound and reduce scarring and re-opening of the cut, Jason had told him when infiltrating his personal space by yanking at his arm until Tim nearly tipped over the edge of his bunk. Instead he had been forced to sit up. Several narrowed gazes and a glimpse of teeth later convinced him to raise his shirt and show the bulky man the wound on his torso.

Patches of solid crimson surrounded the gash. Tim continued to hold his orange uniform, hands tightening their grip with the other inmate inspected him closely. He appeared to evaluate how to stitch the laceration as if a surgeon contemplating how to finish the operation with quick and efficient lacing.

He should worry about the hygiene rather than the origin of the needle and the thin thread. Furthermore, when did he get his last tetanus shot? He couldn’t remember, not in time, because Jason had already started. With his eyes strained on the moist patches on the ceiling, Tim worked hard not to wince or whimper as the equipment worked its way through his skin with practiced ease. Jason wasn’t as gentle as he ought to be. Tim grit his teeth and shifted his eyes downward to watch the man at work. He noted a small crack of a smirk on his lips, eyes enlarged and focussed. Had this been a different situation and a brighter location, he would have guessed the man to be fascinated if not rudely _happy_ about his injury.

He failed to keep silent when the sharp sting entered his body, making him jolt. His hands released the fabric, choosing to push at the source of his agony. He should have known even his mightiest push couldn’t make Jason budge. “Did it hurt?” the man asked, his voice lacking proper concern. His fingers wrinkled his uniform as he balled them into fists. That _prick_. “No,” Tim lied blatantly. His eyes hardened and he realized he was in a favourable position, length increased by his position on the top bunk, hands near the man’s thick neck just inches away from a basic but efficient chokehold. For a moment he felt powerful, but then Jason’s smirk grew into a wicked size. “Didn’t mommy dearest teach you not to fucking lie?” he asked without seeking freedom from Tim’s hold. He scoffed. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” he asked in return, appalled by Jason’s crude behaviour and speech. “Haven’t kissed a woman in quite some time. You look close enough though,” the veteran inmate commented, leaning his torso forward despite Tim’s consistent pushing. Sweat broke out on his forehead when an arm flew up to his head, hand clutching the back of his neck.

The force behind the press of lips was frightening. Tim’s eyebrows dipped, wrinkles deepening between them and across his forehead. Jason’s grip was like an iron vice, blunt nails sinking into his skin until he feared they’d extract blood. What ached most viciously was his wound and the fresh stitching that was still in progress. The needle hung from the thread, shifting between them and stinging him by accident (or so he thought, but Jason was grinning now). Tim grunted and was yet again taken by surprise as a soft, wet object prodded at his lips. He opened his mouth only to bite at Jason’s arrogant tongue.

The man pulled back as he had hoped he would. A stubborn, sassy look settled on Tim’s face as Jason’s jaw moved from side to side. He awaited a counterattack whether it be physical or verbal. When nothing came, the smaller man resumed the stitching by himself and refused to acknowledge the other until he was done. The suture was a bit sloppy from this perspective, but it had to do. He had to keep his cellmate on a distance for now, until he knew what his true intentions were. Once done Tim made a knot, removed the needle and allowed the leftover thread to hang from his wound.

Their cell had become awfully quiet, unnerving Tim to raise his gaze from one last inspection of his wound. When he finally did look up, Jason was leaning against the opposite wall with his hands in his pockets. The _something_ in the man’s eyes caused Tim to brace his hands on the thin mattress below him. Without a single word, he knew _yet_ had passed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome Dick and Damian dynamics.

Gotham Prison, home to over 50,000 inmates of varying backgrounds and skillsets, was the last place he thought to call his home. From a box underneath a bridge to a shabby apartment in the slums to a crowded caravan; there had never been much to call home, but it had allowed him a sense of freedom. While life wasn’t always merciful, it was exciting, something he valued a lot. Inside this building there were guards and cameras and sensors and barred doors and tiny windows and strict schedules. There was nothing thrilling at all.

“Ah, so depressing!” Complained the man out loud, his train of thought worsening and nothing or no one in the near vicinity to make him think otherwise. If only his cellmate hadn’t been sentenced to solitary confinement for the next few days. He felt as isolated as his friend. This cell was tiny and dull, nothing like the caravan he lived in most of his life. 

“I’m so bored, I need to get out,” the man whined as his hands curled around the iron bars of his door and shook them with all his might. A sudden, loud clash of metal against iron startled him. “Scheming your way out, Grayson?” a familiar voice questioned him from the other side. A grin grew on his face at the sight of his favourite law enforcer. “ _Me_? Why, Dami, I’m innocent!” 

Grayson, Dick Grayson, twenty-eight, sentenced to nine years of prison for identity theft, amongst other things stolen, along with majority of the circus crew he had been travelling with. They had been at it for years, pickpocketing their audience while they performed and targeting a shop or two in the neighbourhood after business hours. The career of a circus acrobat wasn’t that lucrative; he didn’t have much of a choice if their crew and animals didn’t want to starve. Of course Damian Wayne and the lot that kept a close eye on him in here thought otherwise.

If only he hadn’t come; why had he come? Even now the question lingered in the back of his mind. It would have been their last show in Gotham and Dick wasn’t due to perform until later that evening (in the grand finale, heh), spending his time observing the crowd for thick wallets to get his hands on when he was caught in the act by none other than Gotham’s youngest, most handsome (not entirely irrelevant to mention) prison guard. He would have none of Dick’s batting eyelashes and suave smiles, and had dragged him down to the police station that very evening. Most of his crew followed the morning after, because young mister Wayne was not only untrusting of Dick’s supposedly solo act, but was also paranoid. “You clowns are in this together.” Dick hadn’t tried to correct him: their clown squad were mean.

“Hands behind your back,” Damian told him and he obeyed, eyeing the baton shortly as it slid up the bar to his face. It prodded his cheeks once before the tool was once again dangling from the guard’s belt loop. “If I try to bust out, will you chase me, Dami?” Dick asked with a cock of his hip and a smile that was inviting the man over. Damian Wayne was unaffected. His thick eyebrows dipped in the middle of his face to form a frown. “Imbecile,” the young adult retorted, “As if you can escape _father’s_ prison.” There it was again, his ‘son of batman’ attitude that Dick found so _adorable_. “I can try, can’t I?” he teased, smile morphing into something more mischief. They had played this game before, played it daily. Dick would taunt him and Damian would reject his flirtations with snarky remarks that made Dick giggle like a little school girl.

“Perhaps I want you to catch me,” Dick suggested. “Perhaps I want you to show me what a bad boy I have been.” There was no mistaking the deadly glare of the young Wayne guard and the increasing shade of red to his ears. The prisoner brought his hands forward, reaching beyond the bars for the man’s broad torso. While Damian didn’t allow him physical intimacy, Dick's intentions crystal clear and not as ignored and rejected as they should be, he refrained from indulging him. “Please, Dami? Batman doesn’t have to know,” Dick whispered as his body rutted against the hard material separating them. “I don’t kiss and tell.” Damian knew that all too well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Damian Wayne came to be.

Damian Wayne, the youngest prison guard in Gotham Prison history. Known for his strict and merciless handling of the inmates, knew his father’s prison like the back of his hand, almost as if he warn born here, instead of that cage in Arabia. He blamed them both for the short affair they irresponsibly shared before she was accused of mass murder in Arabian Peninsula and was sent to her home country to be convicted. Well, perhaps he blamed her a bit more than he blamed him. After all, he had never murdered someone (or had he? Damian was still investigating). 

He was taken from his mother after birth, but never made it to a hospital, instantly kidnapped by his mother’s affiliation: the league of assassins. They trained him for almost a decade, sending him to grant his mother freedom. With his small posture and stealth, he was certain to rescue her. However, this once in a lifetime chance proved fruitless when he came across Bruce Wayne, warden of the notorious Gotham Prison, who was on an excursion at Arabia’s most tightly guarded facility to learn from its methods and technology, and to assist the government to overthrow the Death Market where tools for assassins and the like were stock product number one. Their meeting had been fate, Damian had told him later on, as he could have felt a sense of familiarity when he looked up at the giant of a man. While he hadn’t meant to meet him, he had come to appreciate fate’s inevitability.

The older man could see the evil in his eyes, felt the hostility that no ten year-old should harbour in this day and age. The guards that had accompanied him had taken notice of the child’s presence as well. If they had caught him (“How insulting, they could have never even touched me!”) they would not have treated him kindly despite his young age. Therefore he had maneuvered him into a tight hold which was figuratively difficult (he was impressed), and Bruce had explained he was his son and was not so kindly asked to exit the premises immediately. Damian had been inclined to protest at first, but the man’s iron grip sealed his lips. Besides, who was to question him with fierce blue eyes and a deadly glare on Damian’s face that mirrored his own? Even if he had not been able to rescue his mother, he had gained a father.

Bruce had taken him to Gotham, but not without exhausting defiance from his son. The years that followed were not without headaches or bruises, and attempted kidnapping from the league, but at the age of sixteen Damian was an astonishing 6 feet tall and more lethal than ever. He was as stealthily as he had been the day they first met, but he had grown to respect his father and his morals, sensing his mother’s and the league’s wrongdoings when studying for his Bachelor of Science in Criminal Justice. His goal of life had changed. He was determined to perform as his father’s right hand and to take his position when the Batman was old and senile.

Until then, Damian could merely scoff at the gentle penalties their inmates received. Thieves and frauds such as Grayson would never change their ways without proper discipline forced upon them. Still, whenever he was out of sight, angling them into a camera’s blindspot, Damian couldn’t strike the man as he thought just. Whether it was the man’s gentle look, his toothy grin, his graceful movements and allurings lips (“Can’t you shut them for _one second_ , Grayson? You are driving me insane with your nonsensical chatter!”) or his father’s moral code withholding him, Damian had yet to determine.

**Author's Note:**

> Might write more about this. The AU interests me enough to want to create a Prison!Robinpile story lol


End file.
